


Lost and Found

by Purpleologist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: And Dean and John kinda went separate ways, And then John died, BUT HEY LOOK CAS IS HERE, Because Sam was out of practice, Dean and Sam never went to find John, F/M, Like, Really alcoholic, So Dean's alcoholic now, So Sam and Jess died, and dean thinks he's lying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-04-07 13:20:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14081784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Purpleologist/pseuds/Purpleologist
Summary: What if Dean never visited Sam's Stanford apartment that night in 2005?What is Dean went to find John on his own?What is Sam and Jess died?--~--Maybe if Sam hadn’t looked back. Maybe if he hadn’t pulled his girlfriend closer to him and hurried her inside. Maybe if he had just taken a longer look, taken a moment to recognize the 1967 Chevrolet Impala blasting AC/DC across the street from his Stanford apartment. Maybe… Maybe the ending would’ve changed.





	Lost and Found

Dean sighed as he sat in his car, leaning back in the driver’s seat as he watched the couple walk down the street to the apartment. The man was freakishly tall with a mop of dark brown hair and, though it was too far away to tell, he knew he had eyes that could change from every color he could think of. He was walking next to a woman that nearly matched his height, which was quite a feat all things considered. Though Dean didn’t know the woman like he knew the man, from here he could see that she had blonde hair and a laugh that made even the dreary Halloween night seem brighter. As Dean looked over the woman’s nurse costume, he couldn’t help but let a smirk slide over his face.

 _Way to go, Sammy_. He thought with a grin, taking a break from his stakeout to pop one of his favorite tapes in. The pound of classic rock filled the car and the man glanced back, the confusion written clear on his face as he briefly squeezed the girl’s hand tightly.

Maybe if Sam hadn’t looked back. Maybe if he hadn’t pulled his girlfriend closer to him and hurried her inside. Maybe if he had just taken a longer look, taken a moment to recognize the 1967 Chevrolet Impala blasting AC/DC across the street from his Stanford apartment. Maybe… Maybe the ending would’ve changed.

But something told Dean, as he drove away on the highway that night, that same AC/DC track blasting loud as he sang off-key, that this was how the story went.

Dad was on a hunt and hadn’t been home in a few days.

Sammy was at college, living it up with his hot girlfriend and acing interviews.

And Dean was alone.

Just how it had always been.

The story of the Winchesters. Saving people, hunting things. The family business.

* * *

 

Dean leaned against the wall of the Illinois barn, nursing a beer with one hand and twirling a knife in the other. Visible rings wound underneath his eyes, but he didn’t seem to care. He’d stopped counting the days he’d skipped sleep entirely. It got in the way of counting the days since the fire.

That horrible night still burned in his memory. _Oh, bad choice of words_. He thought to himself, cringing.

It had been 1, 054 days since the fire.

2 years, 10 months and 19 days since Sammy-

Since Samuel Winchester and Jessica Moore died.

It had been all over the news at the time.

The two Stanford students had been asleep in their shared apartment when neighbors heard shouting and screaming. And then there was the smoke. And the gunshots…

Some people swear they saw a man walk out and witnesses claim it was a friend of the deceased couple, but how was that even possible? For a man to walk out of a burning building without a scratch on him, leaving two friends dying on the inside.

Dean knew.

And his father had known too.

Of course, that was before his father _died_. Died on a stupid hunt that should’ve been easy. One demon.

‘It’s only one demon, Dean, you don’t need to come.’ He’d promised. ‘I’ll exorcise it and be home for beer.’ He’s said. ‘You’re almost as much of a nag as your mother.’ He’d told him before hanging up.

Funny how he’d always spoke as if she was still alive. As if she wasn’t the reason that the now-29 year old was drinking his life away in a random barn in Pontiac, Illinois, cursing his entire life and wishing to God that he wasn’t the only Winchester left on this earth. What he wouldn’t give to have his brother roll his eyes and call him ‘jerk’. How he wished he could just hear his father spouting instructions like an army sergeant one more time.

He let out a bitter laugh.

As if anything like that was in the cards for Dean Winchester. As if God cared about him. 

He polished off the beer in seconds, reaching into his cooler for what was probably his tenth or so… he’d lost track hours ago. It wasn’t like it mattered anyway. He was just squatting for a day or two, taking a break from the open road. If it had been before, he probably would’ve gone to a bar and tried to pick up a chick or two to have some fun with, but that was then and this was now.

Then he was Dean Winchester, hunter of the supernatural and breaker of women’s hearts.

Now he was Dean Winchester, reckless drunk and occasional killer of monsters.

He coughed as he popped open the bottle, taking a drink just as a loud bang hit the metal roof of the barn. He jumped, spitting up beer as he shakily stood, spinning the knife to a fighting position. He’d stolen it from a demon a while ago after finding out that the thing let him stab demons and along with just about everything else that existed. Whatever was here, it was about to get a few new holes in its chest.

The flaps on the roof flew back and forth, clanging loudly against what he vainly hoped was the wind. Thunder crashed outside and sparks flew from the old lights as the barn doors blew open and in walked a man. He was slightly shorter than Dean, with slightly disheveled black hair and intense eyes that zeroed in on him the moment he’d walked in. A tan trench coat blew around him and Dean couldn’t help but notice that the man’s tie was clearly done wrong.

You know, now that he thought about it, he was seeming less and less like a man. The entrance, first of all, was a major tip-off, and the way he held himself, ramrod straight and with an air of superiority and a little… confusion. Something told Dean that this man wasn’t exactly used to confronting humans.

“Who are you?” Dean asked, brandishing the knife defensively when the noise died down. The man quirked his head to the side slightly, taking a few steps forward to be directly in front of him.

“I’m an angel of the lord.” He said in a deep voice, his expression barely wavering when he saw the knife. For a moment Dean considered calling Bobby Singer, a man who’d helped him on many a case and, maybe if he was being completely honest, had been a bit of father figure to him these last couple years. Angels weren’t real and there was a list of monsters about a mile long that had the nerve to pretend to be one in order to get their meals.

The “angel” took a step closer and Dean moved back, gripping the knife tighter.

“I’m not here to hurt you.” He promised, raising his hands up in surrender. Now that he was closer and the flashing lights had died down, Dean could see that he had shockingly intense blue eyes. Not a hint of that demonic black in them.

“Yeah, right.” Dean said sarcastically, glaring him down. “Even if you are an angel-“

“I am.” He said without hesitation.

“Why do you give a damn about me?” The stoic expression of the so-called angel faltered as he frowned, looking at Dean with a look of disappointment.

“You don’t think you deserve to be saved.” He said, apparently confused by what was a well-known fact to him.

“Why are you here?” Dean asked, taking a deep breath. “Tell me or this knife goes through your chest.”

“I’m here to help you. Your brother-“

“My brother is dead.” Dean said coldly. “And anything that thinks otherwise is most definitely not an angel.” He leapt forward, burying the knife hilt-deep in the man’s chest and pushing back. The man looked down at the knife with a small frown, grabbing the knife and pulling it out of his chest in one clear motion. Dean gaped, fumbling at his side for something, _anything_ that might kill this. “Your brother is alive and being hunted by a fearsome demon. I’m here to help you protect him.”

“MY BROTHER IS DEAD YOU BASTARD!” He yelled, seeing red and pinning this supposed angel against the barn wall in anger. “MY BROTHER HAS BEEN DEAD FOR ALMOST THREE YEARS!” The angel blinked, forcing him off with an exasperated sigh and crossing the room to a rickety wooden table that Dean had stacked his miscellaneous belongings on.

“Allow me to try this again.” The angel said, offering a small smile. “My name is Castiel and I am an angel of the Lord. Your brother’s soul was recently stolen from Heaven by demons and it’s my job to help you find him and stop the demon Azazel from converting him to the side of Hell for the Apocalypse.”


End file.
